


Irreplaceable

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: Unconnected Phil Coulson Fics [9]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, BAMF Phil Coulson, But is it really cheating is you never get caught?, Feels, Just enough fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, No beta— we die like men, Phil totally cheats at cards, UST finally getting R’d, rated M for violence, torture aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: Brooks Brothers Madison Classic-Fit, Spread Collar. 16/34, White.Unassuming.Classic.Ordinary.7mm tear under the left collar.Irreplaceable.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Phil Coulson & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Unconnected Phil Coulson Fics [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709944
Comments: 14
Kudos: 134





	Irreplaceable

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to deal with a block on the last 5 chapters of I Will Wait For You. I’m trying to write what’s on my mind to see if I get unstuck. 
> 
> Have some feels, I guess?

“Come on, Coulson. Stay with me. Can’t carry you and shoot.”

Which is a lie; Clint will learn to fly if that’s what it’s gonna take to get Phil out of here alive. 

Or, he glances at the man, barely on his feet with his unbroken arm slung over Clint’s shoulder, at least what passes for alive. 

“Shirt,” Phil slurs through the pain and whatever mind altering substances his interrogators have pumped into his veins; something strong based on his uneven pupils and nonsensical words.

“Yeah, I’ve got a shirt for you on the ‘jet. We gotta keep going. They're gonna realize Tasha’s a distraction any minute now.”

When he had finally gotten to the cell holding Phil, Clint had found him curled into the corner, cradling his arm and whispering random words; he’s not even sure Phil actually cares that he’s shirtless and barefoot, his slacks ragged at the knees. 

Phil had missed a scheduled check in over two weeks ago and, based on the various cuts, bruises, and burns, they hadn’t been an easy two weeks. The fact that Phil’s alive at all means he hasn’t given the Syndicate what they want; in all honesty Clint thought he was coming to bring a body home so he can’t help but be grateful that it isn’t worse. 

“Can’t— Shirt!” Phil says again and tries to pull them back down the corridor towards his cell.

“Stop,” Clint says, tightening his arm around Phil’s waist, flinching as he feels the electric burns under his fingertips, “Phil, I’ll get you a new shirt. I’ll get you a dozen new shirts, but we’ve got to go.”

“No. S’lucky. Need it.”

You have got to be fucking kidding him. 

Of course Phil was wearing his lucky shirt when Operation Guardian went sideways. If Clint doesn’t go back for the damn thing Phil’s gonna fight him every step of the way and they don’t have time for that. 

There’s another big explosion on the other side of the compound. 

“Fine,” Clint says, propping Phil up against the wall, “I’ll be right back.”

“Gun.”

“You can’t even see straight.”

“ _Gun_. Gun, shirt, home.”

“For fucks— here, take it. Don’t shoot your eye out. I’ll be back, don’t move. You hear me? You stay put,” he says, as if Phil’s going anywhere without him.

“Stay,” Phil agrees, nodding his head loosely, but against all odds his left hand is steady as he points the gun down the corridor. 

“And don’t shoot me when I get back,” Phil is right handed but all things considered he’s still lethal with a handgun. 

“Won’t. Never again. Promised.”

Clint isn’t sure what to name the feeling that tightens his chest. 

Ten years ago he had been nothing more than a scared kid, already too far down a bad road. Phil had shot him and then chased him across the Turkish rooftops in the middle of a rainstorm; even with a graze across his thigh Clint had been squirrelly as all hell, leaping across alleys and making use of every scrap of cover, sure he had lost Phil twice only to hear him call out between gaps of thunder, “I really only want to talk, Mr. Barton.”

Phil hadn’t even had the good grace to be out of breath when he finally cornered a bleeding half-feral Clint and didn’t flinch when halfway through his sales pitch Clint had a knife to his throat. Just continued on about health benefits and 401ks. 

Clint had thought Phil was crazy, and that’s what sold him on SHIELD; not the pitch, not the fact that he had done what no one had in the six years since Clint had gotten free of Carson’s and trapped him, but the way he stayed so completely calm and in control with the point of Clint’s knife digging into his throat.

Clint pulls out another glock, confirms there’s a round in the chamber, and heads back to the cell. 

He almost doesn’t see it at first; the once white fabric blends in with the dirty, bloodstained concrete. One of the sleeves is missing and Clint feels irrationally upset on Phil’s behalf. 

He gets back to Phil and holsters his backup piece, “Trade ya.”

Phil’s back to his nonsense words, “Tangent. Downtime.”

“Sure thing, buddy. As soon as you get out of medical. We can take as much downtime as you want.”

Phil doesn’t fight him on the exchange, giving Clint the gun and then clutching the remains of the shirt in his fist as he lifts his arm back over Clint’s shoulder and lets himself be half carried to the extraction point.

“Scorpion. Starlight. Fenrir.”

Something seems familiar about the words, and Clint gets it when Phil says, “Excelsior.”

They’re mission names. Giving up intel without actually revealing anything. Specifically, missions that Clint and Phil had gone on together. Excelsior had been their last one before Clint and Tasha had been sent to Singapore.

“Sagittarius.”

Or maybe not. Clint doesn’t recognize that one.

“Magic.”

Okay, but Magic was definitely their first op together; it’s not like that’s something Clint will ever forget, both of them still feeling each other out, Clint trying to push boundaries and Phil living up to every silent promise he had made on that cold and wet Turkish night.

Now that he’s listening for it he recognizes every op; though some of them blur together, it's mostly memories of cold take out and cheating at cards (Clint swears he isn’t the only one, though he’s never caught Phil at it. No one is _that_ lucky).

“Fenrir. Excelsior. Sag— wait. Guardian now, then Sagittarius.”

Guardian. This had actually been one of Phil’s solo ops; Clint and Tasha already on their own mission when the Syndicate tip came in. Phil had been missing ten days by the time they had been debriefed and Fury’s lucky they didn’t pull the building down around his ears when they found out it had been kept from them until they were cleared, that they hadn’t been pulled out of Singapore the moment it had happened.

They’re free of the compound and the ‘jet is in sight so he comms, “Nearing the finish line here, Tash.”

“One more,” she replies and he can tell by the sound of her voice she’s been having fun. 

The next explosion collapses half the building.

Fury’s ‘minimum collateral damage’ can suck it. 

Phil’s still mumbling mission names as Clint hands him over to the standby team to get triaged and settled back on the waiting gurney.

Clint’s never heard of Sagittarius; he worries away at it in his mind as Tasha comes running and he gives her a hand up, the tailgate closing behind her.

“Hey, Natasha, have you ever heard of a mission called ‘Sagittarius’?”

“No, but I can look into it.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Or... Maybe?”

They settle on the bench next to Phil as they take off; his arm is splinted and he has an IV running. Just fluids for now until they can be sure whatever cocktail is in his system won’t react badly to anything else.

“Sagittarius?” She repeats.

“Yeah.”

“Sagittarius,” Phil says. Either going out of order or just repeating what he hears; he shouldn’t be repeating the loop yet. He cuddles the shirt to his chest and says it again, warmly, “Sagittarius.”

Clint figures it’s cheating to ask him while he’s out of it, but Phil’s known who he is for a long time now. Longer than Clint’s really known himself, “Hey, Phil, which one was Sagittarius?”

“Sagittarius,” he agrees, and fiddles with the shirt until he’s able to feel along the line of missing buttons to flip up the left collar, “Sagittarius,” he says, holding out the shirt like it’s something precious.

Clint isn’t sure how Phil’s done it, but with all the damage done to the shirt (don’t think about it being on Phil when it happened) he’s located the tiniest little tear. 

Clint puts it together then. 

In Phil’s mind, _Sagittarius,_ and not Magic, was their first op together. The one where Phil recruited him. 

The one where Clint, bleeding and scared, had held a knife to his throat, barely cutting through the fabric of his shirt. 

This shirt. 

“How the _hell_ is this your lucky shirt?”

“Lucky.”

“I almost killed you.”

“Didn’t. Lucky.”

“Are you crazy? It’s what you were wearing when this op tanked.”

“Lucky.”

“YOU ALMOST DIED!” Clint shouts.

“Didn’t. Lucky.”

“I swear to god, I’m burning that thing.”

Phil gives him an injured look and pulls the shirt back to his chest.

“He didn’t mean it,” Tasha says, patting Phil’s hand.

“The hell I didn’t.”

“ _Clint_ ,” she says and does that psychic thing that she does, silently indicating Phil’s increasing panic and telling him to tell Phil what he wants to hear.

And, yeah, maybe Phil isn’t the only one being irrational now.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, Coulson. You can keep it,” he lies, but he’s a very good liar.

“FTS is clear, we can give him something for the pain now,” the medic says, actions follow words as she injects the military grade painkiller into the IV line. 

“Promise,” Phil says, his eyes glazing over almost immediately, “Promise!”

“Okay! Okay, I promise.”

Phil’s lips curve into a sweet smile and Clint has to swallow the completely inappropriate urge to kiss him. 

Instead he covers Phil and Tasha’s fingers with his own and holds on until Phil finally, mercifully, falls unconscious. 

~~~

“I still say you should burn it.”

“I’m not burning my lucky shirt, Barton.”

They’ve gone back and forth about what each of them considers lucky a dozen times now, so Clint’s going to try another track. 

“You can’t tell me you’ll ever wear it again.”

“It’s… salvageable.”

“It’s really, really not.”

“It’s fine. I can just keep a piece of it. That’s probably easier anyway.”

“Look, you don’t need it anymore, right? You’ve got me.”

“It’s,” Phil looks embarrassed, “Someday, you’ll leave. At least then I’ll still have this.”

“Are you— I can’t believe— what makes you think I’m leaving?”

“We both know you aren’t meant to be tied down.”

“I don’t— I’ve never felt tied down by you, Coulson.”

“Not yet—”

“It’s been ten years. If I was going to run, I would have done it by now.”

“You would if you knew,” he whispers.

“Knew what?”

Phil’s eyes flash to Clint’s and Clint realizes he wasn’t meant to hear that, which means he absolutely needed to hear it. His stomach sinks. He doesn’t want to know, but he needs to know, “What is it that I don’t know, Coulson?”

“I didn’t, I’m sorry. It’s the drugs, forget I said anything.”

“I know for a fact you haven’t taken anything stronger than an aspirin for the last two days. You’re worse than Tasha and I combined.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Am not.”

“Are— you’re not going to distract me. Come on, Phil, don’t you trust me?”

And he isn’t sure if it’s the earnestness of his tone; his, to be honest, legendary puppy dog eyes; or his use of Phil’s first name, but Phil cracks, clutching the filthy scrap of fabric to his chest like a lifeline and clenching his eyes shut as he whispers, “How I feel.”

“What?” And it’s either hope or dread welling up inside him and he won’t know which until he gets Phil to clarify, “How do you feel?”

And Phil, calm, collected, _fearless_ Phil looks scared for the first time Clint’s ever seen; and even still he’s so, so brave, braver than Clint will ever be as he looks Clint in the eye and says clearly, openly, “I’m in love with you, Clint.”

“How long?” Clint asks, his voice stripped of all emotion, unable to let himself believe it’s true. Phil looks away, ashamed, and Clint repeats, “How long, Phil.”

Phil takes a shaky breath, “Since Magic.”

“Are you— you stupid, stupid man.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this for ten years. _Ten years_.”

“I shouldn’t have, I know; I should have had you reassigned, it was selfish, and unfair, and inappro—”

“Phil,” Clint stops him, carefully cupping Phil’s bruised chin and turning him back to face Clint, “I’m not upset that you hid it— or, I am, but I’m upset at both of us, because I’ve been wanting to do this since the night you shot me,” Clint leans down and presses his lips against Phil’s.

For a second, he thinks he’s miscalculated, that despite his words, this isn’t what Phil meant, but then Phil’s kissing him back, sweeping past all his defenses, taking control of the kiss and branding Clint’s mouth with his own. 

Eventually Clint has to come up for air and once again it isn’t fair, Phil looks completely in control of himself while Clint’s trying to catch his breath.

“See,” Phil says, tapping Clint’s chest with the shirt, “Lucky.”

“Ten fucking years, Phil. I’m burning that thing to ash.”

Phil’s getting ready to argue with him, Clint can see it in his eyes, and so he shuts him up in the best possible way, intent on kissing Phil into submission, knowing in his heart that the damn shirt is going to stick around a long, long time. 

After all, it's irreplaceable. 

  
  



End file.
